If Wishes Were Canines
by L J Groundwater
Summary: An old friend of Denny's comes to Crane, Poole & Schmidt needing help, and Alan is more than a little disturbed by a court-appointed case. Rating for minor language and some later issues. No spoilers- if you want to know before reading, PM me.
1. Chapter 1

Another tribute to David E. Kelley's genius… I just borrow these folks…

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Alan Shore was heading down the hallway of the law offices of Crane, Poole and Schmidt, Boston, when he was called into the office of his best friend and senior partner, Denny Crane. "Alan! Come on in; I want you to meet someone."

The forty-something lawyer paused in his step and complied. "Good morning, Denny," he said.

"Alan, this is Lorelei Medeiros," Denny said, indicating the stunning woman sitting across from him. "I used to shoot with her husband Manny at Walnut Hill. Lorelei—Alan Shore."

Alan offered a closed-mouth smile as his eyes studied her olive skin, her dark eyes, her glorious mane of dark hair. She was younger than Denny; about his own age, if he was reading her right. And she was beautiful, but not in the hooker way that so many of Denny's female friends were. More in the genuine way that made Alan himself take notice. "How do you do?" he asked, extending his hand.

"Lovely to meet you," Lorelei answered, placing her hand in his. "Denny's told me so much about you."

"Already?" Alan asked, glancing toward his friend.

Lorelei smiled, gave the tiniest laugh. "Well, mainly about your field trip to the rifle range."

"Ah." Alan savored the feeling of her smooth skin against his, then released her hand. "Not my best work, I'm afraid."

"Well, shooting isn't for everyone," she said kindly.

"Alan's… _soft_ about guns," Denny piped up. "He's a Democrat."

Alan looked more pointedly at Denny. "I've just been on the wrong end of too many barrels to appreciate them the way Denny does," he said.

"Lorelei's here to sort out some issues with Manny's estate. He passed away earlier this year—heart attack. Only fifty years old. Tragic."

Alan looked back at Lorelei. "I'm so sorry," he said softly.

She smiled back at him. Her eyes held him fast; Alan couldn't read them. "Thank you," she said.

"I'm taking her out for lunch today. Thought you might want to come along. If you hear us talking about guns and shooting, you might learn something."

Alan broke eye contact. "I have an appointment at lunch time today, Denny; I'm afraid I won't be able to join you." He looked back at Lorelei. "But I'm sure I'll be able to… learn from you… another time."

Lorelei lowered her eyes and smiled. "Denny's so pro-gun, it makes Charlton Heston look like a mama's boy."

Alan grinned in delight.

"Don't worry, Mr. Shore; guns aren't for everyone. They weren't my 'thing' either, but Manny adored them. A good thing, too, I suppose," she said, "or we wouldn't have met Denny. And Denny is definitely a keeper."

Alan nodded. "That he is," he agreed. "Denny, I have to prepare for court this morning; I'll meet up with you later. Lorelei," he said, "I hope we see each other again."

"Thank you, Mr. Shore."

"Please: Alan. Any friend of Denny is a friend of mine."

"Only if I let you," Denny put in.

Alan smiled again. This Lorelei made Denny feel good. He approved. "Of course, Denny."

"Thank you, _Alan_," Lorelei amended.

Alan nodded and made his exit. As he headed back down the hall he was joined by another name partner, Shirley Schmidt. "Alan, just the man I was looking for."

"Shirley, I've longed to hear you say that, but I've promised Denny you're off limits."

"I'm sure somewhere in your world that statement has meaning. I'm happy to see you because I have something that needs just your kind of touch." Alan opened his mouth. "Don't say it. I mean it needs your brand of forcefulness." Alan just looked at her as they reached the kitchen. "Again, a poor choice of words. Alan, I'm assigning you a case because I can."

"Shirley, you take all the fun out of our little _tête__ a __tête__s_."

"I'm known for that," she said, heading to the coffee.

"What do you need me to do?" he asked as he reached for a bottle of orange juice.

"I need you to help a dog."

Alan laughed lightly. "What?"

"We've been assigned a case by the courts and I want you to handle it. A family is in violation of the city's laws regarding pit bulls, and you need to defend them."

Alan's light mood dropped. "Pit bulls?" he repeated.

"Yes. This family wants to bring their dog to obedience training in the Common, but to do so they have to have the dog in a muzzle and that inhibits the training, since it's usually enforced with food. They were fined but they're appealing and they need you to stand up for them."

"Pit bulls," Alan said again flatly.

Shirley pulled milk from the refrigerator to pour into the now-steaming cup. "I'm sensing reticence on your part," she said.

"Well, can't Clarence, or Jerry—?"

"Beneath you, Alan?"

"No," Alan denied forcefully. "It's just that…"

"Just that _what_?" Shirley asked.

Alan changed tack. "Shirley, you've known me for more than three years now. I can't imagine that you'd have missed my many… quirks and eccentricities," Alan began.

"Makes you fit right in here," she countered.

"Dogs are… something I'm reluctant to get close to."

"The dog won't be wearing a clown suit." Alan didn't answer. "I'm sorry. That was probably unfair. Alan, are you afraid of dogs?"

"Not… really…" he replied. "I just…" He stopped.

"Alan," Shirley said, "dogs are like lawyers. They sense fear. Go in like a strong lawyer and you'll be fine." No positive response. "Really." Nothing. "Be a good boy and I'll give you some kibble."

"Usually, a dog wants a bone," Alan replied glibly.

"I'm not helping you with that one," Shirley answered. "I'll get you the file this morning."

"Party pooper."

* BL * BL * BL *

"A dog?" Denny questioned Alan later that day.

"A pit bull," Alan clarified.

"A pit bull is a dog, right?" Denny said.

"Of course it is, Denny," Alan answered, sitting across from Denny on the name partner's sofa in his office.

"And you're afraid of dogs?"

Alan shrugged. "Not so much afraid, as…"

Denny shook his head. "Dogs are supposed to be one of the joys of childhood!" he observed. "They're _great_, Alan! They worship the ground you walk on, they never talk back, they hunt with you, they follow you to the ends of the earth…. Didn't your family ever have a dog?"

"Once, when I was… little," Alan said uncomfortably.

"Well, didn't you like it?" Denny probed.

"I really can't remember," Alan said evasively. "And anyway, Denny, this isn't just any dog; it's a pit bull."

"A dog is a dog," Denny said dismissively. "A dog is only as good or nasty as its owner."

"I have to meet these people this afternoon. I'm going out to their home, so I can observe the animal in its natural environment. Will you come with me?"

Denny looked at his friend for a moment, trying to comprehend yet another of his insecurities. "Sure," he said finally. "Why not?" Then, sensing Alan's increasing discomfort, he changed the subject. "So, what did you think of Lorelei?"

Alan was relieved to fall into step. "She seems to make you happy, Denny. For that, I like her already."

"She's beautiful, intelligent, everything I love in a woman. Always was. Sexy."

"I thought you also loved them _promiscuous_," Alan noted.

"That, too." Denny nodded. "I wanted her for twenty years."

"Have you slept with her, Denny?" Alan asked.

The senior partner frowned and shook his head. "She was a good Catholic girl," he complained. "She wouldn't do a thing while she was married to Manny."

"There's no accounting for some people's morals," Alan deadpanned.

"I can't understand how she could always _resist_," Denny wondered. "A will of iron. But she always wanted me. And now, she's ready."

Alan's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Did she _say_ that, Denny?"

"Manny was a son of a bitch. She wasn't in love with him. _Had_ to be me. I'm the first person she came to after he died six months ago. I'm the person she came to today. She's telling me loud and clear, _now,_" Denny said, waving away the question. Then he suddenly focused intently on his friend. "Do _you _want to sleep with her, Alan?"

Alan just blinked. "I hadn't really thought about it."

Denny smiled a sly grin. "You're slipping."

"Denny, I only met her this morning."

"See what I mean? If you were Denny Crane, you'd have had your hand up her skirt by now," he said proudly.

"I'll never be as quick as you," Alan lamented, not quite serious.

"Six months, Alan. It's been six months. She'll be ready to make her move soon."

"On _you_," Alan predicted skeptically.

"Of course!" Denny declared, not offended. "We're having dinner tomorrow night. Come with us. I want you to get to know her."

"I'd be delighted."

"Good. But don't touch her. She's mine."

"Dibs again, Denny?"

"You bet your ass, dibs," Denny answered. "Come get me when you're ready to go see this dog."


	2. Chapter 2

Once more, the richness of David E. Kelley was a delight to play with...

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Alan tried to hide his growing anxiety with a ready smile when someone answered his knock on the door of the large but rundown colonial-style home. "Hello!" he greeted the thirtyish woman who now faced him and Denny, who was standing very close to him—almost, Alan thought, as though to stop him from turning and running away. "I'm Alan Shore. This is my colleague, Denny Crane, from Crane, Poole and Schmidt. Are you Anne Marie Belmarce?"

"Yes," the woman answered. She brushed back a wisp of errant light brown hair and smoothed down her shirt. "You're the lawyers?"

Alan nodded. "Yes. You have a… problem with a dog?"

Anne Marie offered a small smile and opened the door wide enough to let the visitors in. "We do. Please, come in."

She led Alan and Denny down a hallway cluttered with children's shoes, various skateboards and balls. Alan noticed a couple of well-chewed dog toys and felt his anxiety level rise, something that must have been noticed by Denny, who just briefly lay his hand on Alan's back as they continued into a living room. Alan noticed that the room was clean and furnished with a neat but clearly not expensive setting. Again, he felt his chest tighten when he noticed a large dog bed near an old television in the corner.

Anne Marie gestured for them to be seated on the sofa. "She's a looker!" Denny muttered softly to Alan as they sat down.

Anne Marie sat in an arm chair across from them. "I'm sorry, I know this sounds silly…" Alan tried to smile encouragingly. "It's just… well, we don't have a lot of money, Mr. Shore, and lessons on the Common are only ten dollars apiece. We love our dogs and I want the kids to have the experience of looking after an animal… but I can't afford private lessons and they won't let us attend the ones on the Common unless Sir Lancelot is muzzled."

"Sir Lancelot?" Denny piped up.

"Out pittie," Anne Marie explained. "You know, from King Arthur and all that. My daughter said he was going to be noble and handsome, so we named him that."

Alan nodded slightly, tried to smile. "But surely, Anne Marie, you know that the city has pit bull regulations. If Sir Lancelot were a dachshund, you wouldn't be facing this problem."

"I know. But it's not right!" Anne Marie burst. "Pit bulls aren't dangerous when they're owned by the right people. They're beautiful animals!"

"See?" Denny said. "Beautiful _and_ smart."

Alan shot his friend a sideways look. "Nevertheless," he said to Anne Marie, "the ordinance clearly states that pit bulls need to be muzzled if they are outside their own yard. There's going to need to be a very good argument as to why _yours_ shouldn't be. And that probably includes understanding why you didn't choose to get a different breed of dog."

Anne Marie bit her bottom lip. "Sir Lancelot was going to be put down, Mr. Shore," she said. "He was in the pound and he was out of time, and I couldn't let that happen. Plus the kids loved him."

As if on cue, the sound of children's voices and giggling came floating into the room, followed by a slamming door and a scramble of footsteps. A few seconds later, a little boy, probably around seven years old, came bounding into the room. "Hi, Mommy!"

Anne Marie took the child in her arms and smiled. "Hello, angel. How was your day?"

The little boy crawled up onto his mother's lap. "Good, Mommy!" He gave Anne Marie a kiss. "Veronica's still cleaning her shoes. She stepped in dog poo on the way home." He giggled again.

Anne Marie looked at Denny and Alan. "This is Jonathan," she introduced the child. "Jonathan, this is Mr. Shore and Mr. Crane. They're here to talk about Sir Lancelot."

Jonathan's face quickly turned cranky. "He won't wear your dumb old muzzle," he declared. "I can't give him treats when you make him wear it."

Anne Marie immediately drew her son into line. "Jonathan, you're being rude. And Mr. Shore and Mr. Crane are here to help us see if we can get the training people to let Sir Lancelot go to school _without_ the muzzle."

"Oh. Sorry," the boy said offhandedly.

Denny nodded. Alan smiled at the child. "Do you spend a lot of time with Sir Lancelot, Jonathan?" he asked.

Jonathan smiled and nodded. "He's so beautiful. They were going to make him go to sleep forever. Mommy said we could save him."

Alan opened his mouth to answer when a girl a bit older than Jonathan came bounding into the room and a mid-sized dog, clearly not a pit bull, came running in after him. For a moment he couldn't breathe as his eyes locked on the canine which at first concentrated on its family, then turned its attention to him and Denny. Alan's throat tightened, and the words he had planned to say got caught in his throat.

"Easy, man, easy," murmured Denny, patting Alan's knee as the dog approached. "And don't stare like that—they take that as a threat."

Alan immediately raised his head so he was looking at the ceiling, his body stiff and unmoving. Denny sighed and shook his head, then held his hand out and motioned to get the dog to come to him. "You're Veronica, right?" he said to the girl as the dog moved in and sniffed.

"Yes," the girl answered.

"How old are you?"

"Nine."

"Tell me about your dog here."

"This is Guinevere. She's a husky cross."

The dog seemed to settle in and Denny rubbed her back roughly. "Guinevere. As in, Camelot?"

"That's right!" Jonathan exclaimed.

"She's beautiful. What's she crossed with?"

Veronica shrugged. "Nobody knows. We got her at the shelter. She was really hard to train because huskies are stubborn. But the other dogs in her must have been easier because now she's really great. Wanna see?"

"Sure!" Denny looked at Alan, who was still studiously avoiding making any visual contact with the dog. Guinevere was sniffing at his leg, and his hand, which Alan kept stock still on his knee, as though afraid to draw it back. "Alan. Touch the dog."

"I'm fine, Denny," Alan answered, lowering his head stiffly but still not looking.

"Alan. _Touch the dog._ She's showing you it's okay," Denny insisted.

"She's friendly, Mister," Jonathan said to Alan. "And she loves to play ball! Don'tcha, girl?"

The dog let out one shrill bark. Alan jumped and yanked his hands back further into his lap. His eyes involuntarily went to the dog. He looked away just as quickly, then forced himself to slowly lower his eyes to Guinevere's back, never once letting his eyes near her face.

"You should see this dog in action, Alan," advised Denny. "It could help your case. Huskies are hard to train. If this one's good…"

"C'mon outside!" Veronica urged. "You can meet Sir Lancelot, too!"

Denny stood up. Alan reluctantly followed. "Come on, man; they're shorter than you are. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"I'm not scared, Denny."

Alan watched as Guinevere bounded ahead of Jonathan and Veronica into the hallway. Anne Marie smiled and gestured for him and Denny to follow, leaving her to bring up the rear. Denny gently pushed Alan in front of him, and Alan, looking warily around the hall to the back of the house, followed, freezing when he reached a coat rack right inside the door. "Come on," Denny urged. "You're nearly there!"

Alan swallowed gamely and forged ahead as the young boy and his sister ran outside, and the dog started running around, only to be joined by a smaller, caramel-colored dog.

"Sir Lancelot, I presume," Denny said with a smile, leaning down as the dog ran toward them. The canine pranced around Denny's feet, wagging its tail and sniffing happily. Denny lowered his hand for the animal to smell, then gave the dog a friendly slap on its side. "He's a beauty," Denny said to Anne Marie. "Alan," he said, looking at his companion, who was merely standing still, watching the children run around, "take a look at this beautiful animal. Isn't he stupendous?"

Alan dropped his eyes to the dog for a few seconds, then looked back at the children frolicking, all the while trying to keep track of the location of both dogs without actually making eye contact. "He's terrific," Alan said. His jaw muscles tightened as Sir Lancelot started making circles around him, and burst into speech as the dog pawed at his leg.

"Why don't you show me—" he blurted out.

"Sir Lancelot! Down!" Anne Marie scolded, as Alan stiffened. She pulled the dog away by the collar and Jonathan came over to distract the animal and play with him. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Shore," she said, embarrassed.

"That's all right," Alan said, his voice strained. "This is about a struggle to get him trained—if he was already a perfect gentleman, we wouldn't be here."

"You're very kind," Anne Marie said.

Alan managed a weak smile. "It's quite all right," he said. "So, show me how well Guinevere is trained."

"I'll let Veronica show you; she's Veronica's dog."

"Fine."

Anne Marie called her daughter over and asked her to take Guinevere through some basic commands. At the little girl's bidding—sometimes spoken, sometimes just hand signals—the dog sat, stayed, heeled, came, rolled over, gave a paw, fetched, and ignored the distraction of Sir Lancelot playing happily around her and trying to persuade her to run and play.

Denny smiled. "A smart animal," he said. "Veronica's right; huskies can be quite stubborn. You've done a great job with her."

"We'd like to do the same with Sir Lancelot," Anne Marie said. "Take her to the same place, work with the same trainers. You can see we put in the time, but we need help."

"How much training does Sir Lancelot have?" Alan asked.

"Very little. We've tried some of the techniques here, but realistically, he needs to learn with other dogs. It would help him to learn to ignore distractions, the way Guinevere does, and to socialize him, to make him a good canine citizen. Let me show you what he can do so far. He's Jonathan's dog most of all; I want him to train him."

Anne Marie called her son over and asked him to run through the few things that Sir Lancelot had learned. At first, the dog paid him little attention, distracted by the visitors and Guinevere. Then Anne Marie put Guinevere inside the house and brought out some treats, and suddenly the pit bull was all attention. He sat when prompted, stayed when gently reminded, and was rewarded with a big treat when he came on command. The dog munched happily on the snacks while Jonathan hugged him.

Alan watched all of this with his arms crossed, while Denny watched Alan, the younger man's face unreadable to him. "You can see why Sir Lancelot needs to be without a muzzle," Anne Marie said to them. "He is a food-driven dog. Most dogs are motivated by treats. He needs to be able to learn and socialize."

"Sure he does!" Denny agreed. Guinevere was let out as Denny whistled and the dogs came running back to him. "Dogs love me," he explained to Alan and Anne Marie.

Alan fidgeted uncomfortably as Denny roughhoused with the dogs. Anne Marie noticed and reached down to disburse the animals when Sir Lancelot bounced up happily toward Alan's face. "Lance!" she squeaked, as Alan jerked his arms back and turned his head away. She beckoned to Jonathan to remove the dog, then turned back to Alan. "Again… I am _so_ sorry," she said. "Oh—he got mud on your pants."

Alan offered a weak smile. "No, no—that's all right," he said. He looked at Denny, who frowned in concern at the younger man's suddenly white face.

"I'll get them dry cleaned for you; I'm so, so sorry, Mr. Shore," Anne Marie continued.

"Never mind; it's fine," Alan said vehemently. He took a deep breath. "I've seen enough," he announced. Then he turned on his heel and went back inside the house.

"Mr. Shore?" Anne Marie called, looking at Denny. He just shrugged and the two of them followed him, Anne Marie trying to defend her dog. "Mr. Shore, I'm very sorry. Please don't let this color your judgment of Sir Lancelot. He really is a gentle animal. He was just happy."

Alan stopped short and looked intently at Anne Marie. "You're in court on Friday. Be ready."

Then without waiting for Denny to comment, he headed out to the car.

* BL * BL * BL *

"I've decided that you can have Lorelei," Denny announced the next morning as he and Alan sat having coffee in his office.

Alan nearly choked on his drink. "Really?" he asked. "What about dibs?"

Denny waved his cruller carelessly. "I take it back. She's not my type."

Alan's eyes narrowed. "Did she turn you down, Denny?"

"No!" Denny protested, a little too quickly to Alan. "It just feels funny, that's all. It doesn't feel right. Manny was my friend."

"That's never stopped you before," Alan reminded him.

"I know, but… there's something different about Lorelei. She's…"

"Yes?"

"Well… she's more like you."

Alan pursed his lips. "Meaning?"

"Well, she's…" He waved the cruller in the air again. "…she's closed off. She has… issues with relationships. She's damaged. I think you'd get along with her better."

"Denny, that hurts me," Alan said.

Denny looked wide-eyed at his friend. "I don't mean it in a bad way, Alan," he said. "I just think you're better at handling dysfunctional people."

"I'll find my own dysfunctional relationships, thank you," Alan said tartly.

"She's a nice girl," Denny offered hopefully.

"She seems so," Alan answered, still irritated.

"I'm sorry, Alan," Denny said earnestly. "I really am. I like Lorelei. I just think we're not suited for each other."

"And she turned you down," Alan guessed, although it wasn't really a guess at all.

"Yeah, she did." Denny munched on his donut thoughtfully as Alan stood up to head back to his office. "You still up for dinner tonight?"

"I guess so. If you don't mind eating with _two_ dysfunctional people."

Denny sighed. "If _you_ don't mind eating with two dysfunctional people, why should I?"

Alan shook his head, but accepted the olive branch, and agreed.


	3. Chapter 3

Not mine. Never mine. What a shame…

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"So _neither_ of your sons followed in their father's footsteps?"

"No," Lorelei said, shaking her head as she put down her wine glass. "Anthony works on the fishing boats out of New Bedford—we only see him three or four times a year—and Joseph studies medicine. He's interning at Beth Israel Hospital."

Alan nodded and offered a pleasant smile. "So one nourishes the body and the other heals it."

Lorelei smiled. "I suppose that's true!" she said. "Oh, Manny was disappointed that neither wanted to pursue a career in architecture, but it just wasn't to be."

"'To thine own self be true,'" Alan quoted. "I'm sure he wanted his sons to be happy."

"He did," she answered, glancing knowingly at Denny, "but he wanted them to be happy being architects."

Denny leaned in so he could be heard without shouting. "Manny's will left money to the boys only if they went into architectural work," he explained to Alan. "It's one of the things Lorelei came to me to sort out."

"But surely now that the money is yours, Lorelei, you can do whatever you want with it—including giving it to Anthony and Joseph," Alan surmised.

"Unfortunately, it's not that easy," Lorelei said. "I'm not the executor, nor am I his primary beneficiary. He set up several trusts, and left many conditions on the distribution of funds. Most of the money was in his name only, you see. He earned it; he liked to be in control of it."

"Lorelei is working in a flower shop to make ends meet while we sort out the will. Manny organized for the upkeep of the house and for loans to be paid off, and that's it," Denny explained to Alan. "Everything else is being held in trust. She can't even get money for groceries!"

Alan frowned. "I'm sure Denny explained that Massachusetts law requires that you be able to access thirty percent of your spouse's property, regardless of what's in the will, Lorelei," he said. "But how that happens is handled on a case-by-case basis. I'm glad Denny is working on this for you."

"In the beginning, I just left it because I was still trying to come to terms with Manny's death. Then I tried working with the executor on my own, but I just don't understand the ins and outs of the legal system and I felt like he wasn't listening to me. I'm not looking to make a fortune, Alan; I just want enough to live on. I stopped work because Manny wanted me to. I used to be a nurse, and medicine's changed so much in twenty years, I can't just go back. If I could, I'd have more of my own money and this wouldn't worry me so much."

Lorelei had been fidgeting with a spoon on the table and Alan placed his hand on hers, stopping her. "You'll be looked after," he promised her gently.

Denny watched the exchange, but said nothing.

* BL * BL * BL *

The next morning, a friendly voice at his office door surprised Alan. "Hello there."

He looked up from his desk and immediately smiled. "Lorelei! Hello there." He stood up and waved a hand toward the couch against the wall. "Please—come in."

"Oh, I can't stay," she said, smiling gently. "I'm meeting Denny about… well… you know…" She shrugged but took a few steps into the room. "I just wanted to thank you for dinner last night."

Alan nodded, found himself still smiling. "You can thank Denny; he picked up the tab."

Lorelei chuckled softly. "I will… but I wanted to say thank you to you, as well. Your company was delightful and I enjoyed it very much. So… thank you."

Alan's eyes brightened. "'Delightful' isn't a term I get."

Lorelei took one step closer and looked him in the eyes. "Then let me start a trend. You were _delightful,_ Alan. And so very kind. Thank you."

Alan took in her quiet dignity, and for a moment had nothing to say. Finally, he murmured, "You're welcome." Then, in a sudden afterthought: "Would you like to have dinner again tonight?"

Lorelei broke into a broad smile and then gestured toward Denny's office. "I-I'm not sure if Denny is free—"

"Without Denny."

Lorelei drew back her extended hand, then considered for just a moment. "Oh—" She breathed a small laugh. "You meant—" Alan just watched her. Finally, she lowered her hand, and her eyes, shyly. "Well… yes." She smiled up at Alan; he was almost sure she was blushing slightly. "I'd like that."

Alan smiled back softly, charmed. "So would I. How about eight o'clock?"

"That sounds lovely. Shall I meet you here?"

"How about I pick you up?"

"All right. Eight o'clock it is. I'll be ready."

Their gaze lingered a few more seconds, then Lorelei turned and left, passing Shirley on the way out. Alan went back to his desk as the senior partner appeared. Shirley watched Lorelei leave, took a second to gauge the effect she'd had on Alan, and then smiled briefly at him as she came in.

"You seem to be in fine spirits this morning," Shirley observed.

"I am," Alan answered. "Tell me you're not going to burst my balloon."

"That depends on how you feel about Clarence."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Carl needs to take him away from you this afternoon for a couple of hours. A women's clothing store is being sued by a cross-dresser for not allowing him into the women's changing room, and he needs a little input into the mindset of people who hide behind other personas."

"Not all cross-dressers have multiple personas," Alan pointed out.

Shirley smiled gamely. "This is the best I could do on short notice. Carl isn't exactly overwhelmed with anything out of the ordinary, and at least Clarence is someone he can talk to rationally. Well, most of the time. When Clarice and Oprah aren't in the building."

Alan considered smirking, but instead kept it to a non-committal smile. "I have Clarence doing some research on pit bulls for me this morning; Carl is more than welcome to borrow him this afternoon."

"That court-appointed case? How much can there be to do?"

"The dog needs training, Shirley. The mother can't afford it privately. The ordinance is ridiculous and discriminatory with no basis in fact."

"Alan, it's a fine—see if you can get her out of it and let it go. It's a time-waster."

"There's a child involved," Alan said, strongly. "_Two_ children, actually. I won't be doing this half-heartedly, Shirley. You would have known that when you gave me the case."

"Actually, I thought you'd make it go away. But... to each his own." Shirley shook her head and headed for the door. "Clarence will be returned to you intact later today."

"Clarence? Or Clarice?"

"Both. I hope. But only one of them gets paid."

Shirley smiled, and Alan relaxed as she walked out.

* BL * BL * BL *

"How you going with the dog case?" Denny asked Alan later that day when the younger man came to his office.

Alan shrugged noncommittally. "I've got Clarence researching it for me. He should finish his work tomorrow. Carl Sack has him at the moment; there's a cross-dresser in his office and he's afraid to be in there alone."

Denny's eyes wandered as his mind pictured what Alan told him. "I may have to get in there later," he said. "This dog thing, Alan… it's just a fine, you know. Just get her off and let it go."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?" Alan snapped. Denny looked at him in surprise. Alan paused, then straightened his tie. "Sorry. Shirley said that to me this morning. It's getting on my nerves."

"It's a straightforward case," Denny said. "She didn't know; now she knows; 'Be a nice judge and forgive the indiscretion;' and off she goes."

"It's not that simple, Denny."

"Of course it is! Why should it be complicated?" Denny came around the desk to face his friend. "Look, it's a court-appointed case. We get nothing out of it, and even if we did, there's nothing to be done here except get her off!"

"That's not true, Denny. There's plenty to do here."

"How so?"

"The Belmarce children want this dog. Now, they need to own it, train it, love it. This is the dog they chose."

"They already _had_ a dog."

"And now they have two. And they need to train him so he doesn't jump up and cause trouble. It's what every dog owner should be allowed to do. Every child needs to be able to control his dog. And if they can't afford private lessons, this kid _can't_. I don't just want the fine dismissed, Denny; I want them to be able to take the dog to the Common for obedience training."

"It's a tall order for someone who's afraid of dogs."

"I'm not afraid of dogs, Denny," Alan insisted again.

Denny put his hand on Alan's shoulder. "I'm afraid you won't win this one, friend. People are too afraid of their own mishandling of dogs to let the _dogs _have any freedom."

"I'm still going to try."

Denny nodded understanding and sat down on his sofa. "Lorelei tells me you and she are having dinner together tonight."

Alan faced him but didn't come to sit. "We are," he said. "I was going to tell you myself, but…"

"I know—the dog." Denny smiled and waved a dismissive hand. "I don't mind, Alan. I told you: I think she'll be good for you. What made you finally see it my way?"

"_She_ did."

"Oh yeah?" Denny asked, intrigued. "How?"

"Nothing special. She just stopped at my office on the way to yours this morning, and after we talked for awhile I thought I'd like to spend some more time with her."

Denny smiled knowingly. "Oh yeah?" he said again, this time slyly.

"Yeah," Alan said, his tone defying Denny's. "And just for the record, Denny, she doesn't come across as dysfunctional to_ me _at all."

"Love is blind, my friend," Denny smiled.

"I'm not in love," Alan said.

"Not yet!"

"You know, she called me _delightful,_" Alan told his friend. "I've been called a lot of things, but I don't think that word ever came up."

"See?" Denny said. "Love already."

"Don't kid yourself," Alan cautioned. "I'm just tickled."

"I could say something here…" Denny said with a grin.

"Don't." Alan eased into a smile. "Just gloat in private, would you?"

"This means we miss our balcony time," Denny reminded him. "You'll owe me. No one—no _woman_, especially—is supposed to take away our balcony time."

"We'll have an extra long session at the end of the week."

"I'll hold you to it."

"I'm sure you will."

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan and Lorelei stood at her front door, Alan intensely aware of the importance of this particular moment in an evening out, and certain that Lorelei was dreading it, even after a long, relaxing, and wonderful dinner. Her shy, almost awkward, girl-like smile as she faced him now told him more than she could have spoken aloud, and he was charmed.

"It was a lovely night, Alan," she said sweetly.

Alan smiled gently at her, pleased that she wasn't fleeing into the house, impressed that she was trying to retain her calm, when she was clearly feeling ill at ease for the first time that night.

"It was," he said to her. "Thank you for sharing it with me. Sometimes I prefer a dinner companion other than Denny. He tends to shoot waiters if he doesn't like the service. I find it very hard to be invited back to restaurants after that happens."

Lorelei giggled pleasantly. "It's one of the reasons he and Manny got along so well."

"I'm really no good with a gun. I prefer to _talk_ my way out of trouble."

"And _that's_ one of the reasons you're a lawyer."

Alan nodded. "It is."

They didn't talk for a moment. Alan tried to figure out where her mind was—and his own; he was clearly feeling drawn to this woman, but not in the way he had expected. Yes, she was beautiful. Yes, she was charming. But there was something about her innocence—no, that wasn't the right word, he decided; her _genuineness_—that he was finding so compelling.

Finally, she spoke up. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Alan's eyes smiled softly. "If you're sure," he said.

She smiled back, appreciating his gesture. "I'm sure. Come on in."

Then she found her key, put it in the door, and let them both inside.


	4. Chapter 4

More playtime with David E. Kelley's delightful creations… thanks, David!

* BL * BL * BL *

Lorelei blushed, trying to tell the end of the tale without giggling. "And Denny ended up—"

"With buckshot in his ass!" Alan finished, laughing loudly as she broke down with him. He finished his coffee and put the cup in the saucer on the table in front of them in her living room. "Thank you for that wonderful anecdote, Lorelei; now I have something to use against Denny when he's being so snobbish about my lack of shooting skills."

Lorelei put her fingers to her lips. "Oops. Well, don't tell him it came from me."

Still smiling, Alan promised, "I'll take it to the grave." He saw a cloud pass over Lorelei's face and was immediately contrite. "Oh. Lorelei. I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Oh, don't be silly," she said, recovering quickly and offering him a ready smile. "It's just a word."

"Still, it was very insensitive of me. I'm sorry," Alan said again.

"Alan," Lorelei said. She reached over and put a hand on his. "It's fine." She let her hand linger there for a moment, then drew away and sat back on the sofa with a sigh. "I was just realizing that I guess there were some good memories mixed in there."

Alan furrowed his brow questioningly. "What do you mean?" he asked softly.

"You mean Denny didn't tell you?" Lorelei asked. Alan just shook his head slightly. "Well, I suppose we kept it a pretty good secret. Manny and I were married for twenty-three years, Alan. But… Well, it was a long twenty-three years." Alan said nothing. "Manny was a very complicated man. That much I'm sure you've figured out. I know he loved me," she said. Then although it sounded like there was more to say, she stopped.

"But… he never told you?" Alan prompted gently after a moment.

"In his own way. You know. He bought me things, gave me a nice house to live in, two sons to adore, he never hit me or cheated on me.… I had nothing to complain about."

Again, Alan just looked at her, not saying, but thinking, "On the surface."

"But it was lonely," she said, as though he'd spoken aloud. "He never wanted to go anywhere with me. He didn't attend any of the boys' sports or school events. Didn't like any of my friends. All the interests I thought we shared before we got married just… disappeared as soon as that ring was on my finger. Once in awhile I could get him to go out, as long as there were beautiful women to look at, or if someone like Denny was there." Lorelei smiled and nodded. "Denny knew what Manny was really like—whenever we'd get to Walnut Hill together he'd say, 'See? I got him out. Now, you go have a good time.' And then he'd proceed to… amuse Manny for the day. He knew Manny would be nicer—more relaxed—after that, at least for awhile. I've always been grateful to Denny for that."

Alan nodded. "He understands people well," he agreed quietly.

After a few seconds, Lorelei laughed softly. "Oh, well. What's past is past. We all have to move on. I've had a lovely evening with you, and the boys are going to visit in a couple of weeks and…" Her voice trailed off, then she looked at Alan and said, "I'm sorry, that was a bit of a downer. I didn't mean to go there." She smiled and sat forward on the sofa. "I had such a wonderful time tonight, Alan. Thank you so much."

Alan read this as a cue to leave. "Well, then, I'll be off," he said, pushing his cup and saucer further into the middle of the coffee table and standing up

"Oh—do you have to go so soon?" Lorelei asked, dismayed.

Alan looked at her. "I thought you were saying you…"

"Oh, I wish you'd stay." Suddenly self-conscious, she ran her hands down her legs and looked at the floor. "I—I meant, um… I'm enjoying your company. You're welcome to another cup of coffee if you like."

Alan sat down beside her again, took her hands gently into his own. "I'd like that."

Lorelei smiled and let out a small breath of a laugh. "Good. I'll get it."

"Later," Alan said, looking deep into her eyes. "For now, why don't we just… talk."

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan was sitting at his desk, looking over the research Clarence had left for him, when Denny popped his head into the office. "How'd your dinner with Lorelei go?"

Alan looked up and smiled pleasantly. "Good morning, Denny. It was very enjoyable, thank you for asking." He looked back to his file.

Denny came all the way into the room. "Don't play coy with me, soldier. Did you have sex with her or not?"

Alan closed the file decisively. "I don't plan to tell you that," he said.

"Why not? _I'd_ tell _you!"_

"Denny, I had a wonderful night with Lorelei, we spent all night talking and laughing, and that's all you need to know."

"So you didn't have sex."

"Denny!" Denny just looked at him. Finally Alan sighed, stopped by the genuine look of surprise on his friend's face. He shook his head in surrender. "No. We didn't have sex."

"Why not? Was she not what you thought she'd be when she took off her clothes?"

"I'm not even sure I want to know what that means. And she didn't take off her clothes. I told you, we talked."

"Talked? What did you have to talk about?"

Alan looked at Denny in disbelief. "Plenty," he said flatly.

"You're slipping."

"Would you stop _saying_ that?"

"You _are!_ You used to want to _sleep_ with a beautiful woman. Now, you want to _talk_."

"Love-making starts in the mind, Denny."

"If that's what you think, you're doing it wrong."

"What do you _want_?" Alan asked finally, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket, while reminding himself not to be exasperated. He did love his best friend. But sometimes it was just so hard getting him to understand that occasionally Alan had a different point of view.

"You were a trust attorney; I need you to help me with some aspects of Manny's will."

"I was an _anti-_trust attorney, Denny; I don't handle family trust issues. Besides, I don't think I should be handling anything of Lorelei's at the moment; if she wants me to know anything about her personal business, she'll tell me. Why don't you get Jerry Espenson to help you?"

"Hands?"

"_Jerry._ His research is top-caliber, his numbers are always on the button, and I happen to know he would love to work with you."

"He would?"

"Why do you sound surprised? Wouldn't everyone?"

Denny smiled. "You're right," he said. "This should make his day… his _week."_

"Denny, it would make his whole month."

Clarence came to the office door. "I'm going now, Alan. I should be back in a couple of hours."

Alan nodded. "That's fine, Clarence."

"I promise I'll only be as long as I have to.… I don't really want to do this, you know."

"Did you tell Carl that?"

"What's he doing?" Denny asked.

"He's going shopping," Alan declared.

"Shopping?"

Clarence shrugged uncomfortably. "Shirley and I are going to some ladies clothing stores."

Denny missed the unstated point completely, and focused on his usual target. "You're going out with Shirley? And you don't want to go?"

Clarence nodded resignedly.

"_I'll_ go!" Denny volunteered.

Clarence looked at him, confused. Alan laughed. "Denny, Clarence is going dress shopping."

"I don't care. I think Shirley looks great in _anything_."

"Denny, the dress would be for Clarence—research for the lawsuit against the store that wouldn't let a man into the dressing room."

"So…?"

"So it's the_ man_ who's going to try the dress on."

Denny paused, thought. "I see," he said. "So… Shirley would be zipping me up?"

Alan's lips curled up in a smile. Clarence remained bewildered. "Yes."

"I'll do it!" Denny looked at Alan. "I'd better hurry; they might leave without me." And he moved past Clarence and out the door. Clarence just looked at Alan, who shrugged.

* BL * BL * BL *

Late that afternoon, Jerry Espenson did his best to ignore the red and blue chiffon scarf draped around Denny Crane's neck and stepped back after putting his work on the senior partner's desk. "It's all there," Jerry said, his head bobbing between looking at Denny and down at his hands on his thighs. "Every trust beneficiary ends up being an individual, not a company or a charity."

Denny stopped fingering his dangling diamond earring and frowned. "All of them?" he asked.

Jerry nodded. "Yes. Every one. All the beneficiaries are earrings—_individuals_." Jerry made a short, sharp squeak, stamped one foot and looked back at his hands.

Denny shook his head, looking at the document before him. His eyes scanned down the page, and he frowned again. After a moment he looked up at Jerry, who was still waiting quietly. "Thanks, Hands," he said. "I'll take it from here."

"Is there anything I can do, Denny?" Jerry asked, sensing disquiet in the name partner.

"No," Denny answered, slowly peeling off the scarf and the earrings. "No, nothing."

* BL * BL * BL *

"I'm tired of talking about myself, Alan," Lorelei said when they got back to her house after dinner that night. "What about you?"

"What _about_ me?" Alan replied. She took his coat and hung it up in the hall next to hers before they headed into the kitchen, where she put the kettle on.

"You must have a much more interesting life than I do. I'm just the widow of a prominent architect. You, on the other hand, are an important attorney at a big-time law firm. What made you choose that path? Was it a family thing?"

Alan shook his head and sat down at the table. "No," he said. "Definitely not."

"So what was so appealing?"

Alan considered for a moment. "You have to know what the rules are so you know how to break them without getting into trouble. I'm not good at obeying rules."

"So you became a lawyer so you could be a successful reprobate," Lorelei concluded, twitching her lips in amusement.

"Something like that," Alan answered. "Turns out I could make a lot more money helping _other_ people break the rules. So while I got into law for fun, now I do it for profit."

"Why do I doubt this?"

"You don't know me very well."

Lorelei laughed. "Maybe. But there's a bit more to it, I think. Denny told me you're getting very passionate about a court-appointed case at the moment—there's no money there."

"No, I suppose not," Alan said as Lorelei pulled out cups and saucers and put them on the table between them. "But we don't have a say in those."

"Still; you could always dial it in," she said.

Alan laughed softly. "I'm not really that type."

"I didn't think so." Lorelei pulled out the milk and sugar, then suddenly snapped her fingers. "Oh! I want to show you something." Alan raised his eyebrows but waited as she disappeared from the room and then re-appeared with a bottle in her hand. "I went shopping. I didn't want you to think I was going to doom you to coffee forever," she said.

Alan smiled and took the bottle she offered. "Duckhorn Vineyards… Estate Grown Napa Valley Cabernet Sauvignon." He nodded approvingly. "Very nice. How'd you get this good if you don't drink?"

"I used to buy all the wine for the dinners Manny and I held," Lorelei said. "I had to play hostess on several occasions, so I learned to do it right. I kind of failed the other night by not having anything here… but to be honest I didn't think you'd be coming in."

Alan grinned. "Was I that boring over dinner?" he asked, putting the bottle on the table.

Lorelei laughed. "No, anything but. It was _me _I was worried about." She stopped and suddenly avoided his eyes by looking at the table. Alan watched her openly, saying nothing. Eventually, she looked back at him. His continued to look at her intently, his expression neither expectant nor judgmental, simply waiting. "I haven't been out with a man in a long time," she said finally, almost apologetically.

"Lorelei—"

"I know you're Denny's best friend. Friends talk." Alan shrugged. The kettle started whistling. Lorelei stood up and shut it off but didn't pick it up. "He had—certain expectations. I guess most men do nowadays. But it's been a long time since I've been out in the dating world and I'm just not good at recognizing them. Plus," she added, "I don't think I'm ready for…"

Alan followed her. "Lorelei, I'm not here to get you in bed."

Lorelei laughed nervously and turned to him. "Not yet; we're not on date number three—"

"Lorelei." Alan took her hands in his, stopping her from continuing. She met his eyes, then looked away and pursed her lips. "Lorelei, I find you… incredibly attractive." She smiled briefly. "But… for some reason all my… normal, dishonorable instincts aren't kicking in here. I want to spend time with you. I want to learn about you. But I sense…" He squeezed her hands gently. "Do you feel guilty about having dinner with me?"

Lorelei laughed softly. "No," she said. "Yes. Well, not really." She shrugged. "The truth is, I dreamed about going out to nice dinners with kind men long before Manny died." Alan looked at her intensely. "Manny was always so… distant. I felt like more of a personal assistant than a wife. I missed being part of a couple. I missed being important to someone. I missed making love." She withdrew her hands and turned to look at the sink. "Manny and I never made love."

"That initial spark goes out of a lot of marriages when children come along," Alan commented softly.

"I'm not talking about an initial spark, Alan. I'm saying we _never_ made love. I mean _never."_

"Lorelei, you have two children; surely, you must have…"

She turned back to him to explain bluntly. "I had _sex_ with him, Alan. I had victory sex, clumsy sex, drunk sex, by-the-book sex, incredibly sad sex… But I never…"

"… made love," Alan finished. Lorelei said nothing. Alan looked deeply into her eyes, his own blue eyes so attentive. He laid his hands on her upper arms. "Lorelei," he said, his voice soft, and rough, "a man would… be so lucky to be able to… show you…"

He didn't finish. He considered pulling his hands away, but instead just squeezed very gently. "I can't imagine how lonely you must have been."

Lorelei smiled slightly, shrugged. "I had my sons," she said.

"But they're your _children_, Lorelei," Alan said. "They're not a man who could…" Again, he could not finish.

"I used to hope… no, I shouldn't tell you; you'll think I'm a terrible person," Lorelei said.

"I won't, I assure you," Alan said honestly.

Still, she hesitated. Alan looked more deeply into her eyes. "I was raised a Catholic," she said finally. "And I believed, I truly believed, and I _still_ believe, that marriage is till death do us part." Alan didn't move. "No matter how… awful things could be, I could never… I mean, unless the boys were in danger, I just couldn't even _consider_ divorce," she said, her voice practically a whisper. "But sometimes, I would just wish that… well, maybe I was just weak. I think if the Church allowed divorce I still wouldn't have been able to… But if he had _died_…"

Alan watched her eyes fill with unshed tears. He didn't know what to say.

"See?" she said with a tiny laugh. She blinked back the tears before they fell. "I told you—that's a pretty horrible thing to wish for, isn't it?"

But Alan shook his head, moved to close the gap between them just slightly more. "You're not weak, Lorelei," he told her. "You're probably the strongest, most selfless woman I've ever met." Lorelei lowered her eyes. "Lorelei, look at me," he said. She obeyed. "You won't always be alone. When the right man allows your heart to trust again… well… It will be about making love, I promise you."

Their eyes locked again, and Alan moved even closer, lowering his head till his mouth was just inches from her ear. Words sat on the tip of his tongue, waiting to spill out. But something stopped him, told him this was not the time, or the circumstances. And so he merely whispered, "I promise you."

Alan pulled back, saw that she had closed her eyes and was now opening them, looking at him with an expression he wasn't sure he could read, and she smiled. "Thank you, Alan," she said.

Alan nodded once. "I'd better go."


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks to David E. Kelley for creating the most amazing people to write for….I, of course, own nothing except my own imagination.

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan heard the unusually quick clatter of heels on the floor outside his office late the next morning and looked up from his last minute preparations for court to see who it was that had interrupted his train of thought. He was surprised to see Lorelei rushing past, her head bowed, her expression tight. He moved immediately to the hallway. "Lorelei?" he called as she sped on toward the lobby.

She stopped abruptly, turned and looked at him, her distress showing plainly on her face. "Alan."

"Lorelei, what's wrong?" he asked, concerned.

He moved toward her but she backed away. "I—I can't talk, Alan. Maybe later. I can't talk right now. Not now."

"Lorelei—"

But she was gone, and he was still in two minds about whether to pursue her when Denny came up beside him. "She took that better than I expected."

Alan gave Denny a warning look. "What did you say to her?"

Denny gestured for them to go back into Alan's office. When they got inside, he shut the door. "She was practically in tears, Denny," Alan said to him angrily. "What happened?"

Denny waved Alan toward the sofa. "Sit down, sit down," he said. Alan did as he was told, still looking sternly at the name partner. Denny sat in the nearby chair. "Hands Espenson got to the bottom of those trusts in Manny's will."

"The ones tying up all the money," Alan said.

"That's right," Denny confirmed. "There were layers upon layers of legal red tape—she was never going to be able to figure those out on her own; she was right to come to me about it."

"And I take it what was underneath all the tape wasn't pleasant."

"No, it wasn't," Denny replied in a low voice. Alan frowned. "The beneficiaries of the trusts all appeared to be community organizations. But when we drilled down far enough, the real beneficiaries of the money were… women."

"Women?"

"Individual women. Three of them. Two of them I knew from Walnut Hill."

"Individual women?" Alan repeated, not quite grasping it, or not wanting to.

Denny spelled it out. "Manny was having affairs, Alan. He was setting these women up for life. Not that they needed any money, but there's enough there for them not to leave their husbands, get some nice little penthouse in the Back Bay, and buy enough clothes to choke a horse. No conditions, either. The money can just be handed over."

Alan's head was spinning. "He left his money to his _mistresses_?" he spluttered. "While he left his wife and his sons grasping for pennies?" Alan stood up, the energy brought on by this discovery too wild to be penned up. He paced angrily. "How dare he. How _dare_ he?"

"I told you he was a son of a bitch," Denny reminded him. "But we can fight the will, Alan. The laws of this state already work in favor of the spouse."

"That's not the _point_, Denny," Alan said, fuming. "He just rubbed his infidelity in her face—publicly!"

"I've got a meeting with the executor set up for tomorrow, and I'll give him the ol' _Denny Crane_. That money will be hers in no time."

Alan shook his head, dismayed. "No wonder she ran out of here."

Denny stood up. "She must have suspected he had a bit on the side—everyone knew Manny wasn't a nice guy. Even _I_ knew it. She would have gotten out if she'd been that unhappy."

Alan glared at his friend. "Denny, I thought you were Lorelei's friend. You don't know her at _all_. She _never_ would have left him, no matter _how_ cold and distant he was."

"That sounds needy," Denny opined.

But Alan charged on, his anger, and his emotion, rising as he spoke. "She took the role of wife as seriously as children take the role of mothers and fathers—there was _no question_ of separation. The idea of divorcing him because he treated her with disregard was as foreign to her as separating from their parents is to small children, no matter _how_ badly they're treated. So she spent _years _in a _miserable_ marriage, trying to raise two sons to be competent, compassionate young men, all the while being supportive and faithful to someone who couldn't even _begin_ to show her that she was a worthy human being or that he loved her, which he clearly _didn't_—"

"Whine, whine, moan," Denny dismissed.

"Denny, would you _shut up?_"

The shouted angry words startled not just Denny, but Alan as well. The two of them just stared at each other for a few seconds as Alan's outburst hung in the air. Alan swallowed, smoothed the front of his jacket. "I'm sorry," he said finally, quietly. He looked all around the room, as though following a quick-moving fly, letting deep breaths out through his mouth, trying to focus his thoughts. Denny seemed to understand that there was something deeper about Alan's anger, and so he said nothing. "Denny," Alan began, "you don't have any—" He struggled to find the right words, and restarted. "I think, Denny, you've been lucky enough to…"

He stopped, considered, tried again, this time his voice low, almost humiliated. "I grew up, Denny, in a… difficult… household. You know this. My father… _never_… approved of my existence, and my mother, because she… seemed to think I was somehow to blame for… well… _being_…" Denny watched as the younger man turned his hard stare on the pencil cup on his desk. "Somewhere early on, I was _sure_ I loved my mother, Denny. I was _so sure_. But… that… " Again, he allowed his thought to drift off unspoken. He looked back at his friend, his expression intense. "I wanted… so _desperately _for them to love me, Denny, and for them to _tell_ me that they loved me. But… _more_ than that, I wanted to love_ them_. I knew my friends loved _their_ parents, even my older sister loved _our_ parents. But I, after so many years of…" Alan stopped once more, shook his head slowly, as though disappointed in himself. "It's an _awful_, lonely feeling… to _wish_ you could love someone, Denny. It's worse than losing someone you love. It's worse than someone not loving _you_. It's… empty. It's desolate. It's… so very, very sad."

Denny watched Alan, silently. It wasn't the time to speak.

"Lorelei Medeiros spent twenty-three years living like that, Denny. Twenty-three years of living in a cold, lonely shell of a relationship… _longing_ to feel something she couldn't feel for someone she felt she was obliged to. Hoping that… perhaps… he just couldn't _show_ her his love, but that it was there. Finding out about his infidelities and his bequests… would just be… all that more cruel. No one should ever be allowed to hurt someone like that, Denny. No one."

The depth of pain of the man before him touched Denny deeply, and although Alan was now looking expectantly at him, Denny said nothing. Alan's eyes fell away and started darting from one thing to another in the room, avoiding the uncomfortable silence. Finally, Denny spoke up. "I'm sorry for what I said about Lorelei," he said. Alan looked back at his friend. "You're right, I… never had to worry about whether or not I loved someone. If I loved them, I loved them. If I didn't, it was their loss. Sometimes a choice… sometimes a weapon. I never wanted it to be different."

Still, Alan said nothing. "Alan, for the record, if it means anything… well… _I_ love you."

For the briefest second, Denny thought Alan was going to cry. But that moment passed, and after another minute, Alan replied in a soft voice rough with emotion, "It means a great deal, Denny. I love you, too. And I never have to wish that I did. I just do. Always."

The two friends stood in silence. Finally, Denny said, "You're due in court."

Alan nodded mechanically, staring at nothing.

"You won't find her now anyway; she'll need time alone to think. Go to court, give 'em hell, and then talk to Lorelei."

Again, Alan nodded absently, still affected by his admission.

"Come _onnnn,"_ Denny urged gently. "Hug?"

Finally Alan smiled and accepted the gesture, gripping his friend fiercely, almost desperately. Denny smiled tolerantly as he patted Alan's back soothingly. "Thank you, Denny," Alan said when they parted.

Denny squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. "Go help that dog."

* BL * BL * BL *

Assistant District Attorney Otto Beedle stood up in front of Judge Victoria Peyton and spread his hands in a helpless gesture. "It's a law," he said to her. "It's as simple as that. Anne Marie Belmarce chose to bring home a restricted animal. And that's fine—she has the right to do that. But the city of Boston has the right to protect its citizens, and one of the ways it does that is to require pit bull dogs to wear muzzles in public unless they're securely contained. If she wants to train this animal, I applaud her. But I can't applaud her breaking the law."

Alan was on his feet immediately, buttoning his jacket. "But I _do_ applaud her," he said, and immediately did just that, as Beedle rolled his eyes. "You see, Judge, what opposing counsel can't seem to see is that it's a dumb law: 'Let the people get whatever dog they want—but don't let them out in public.'"

"That's not what the law says," Beedle interjected.

"Of course it is!" Alan exclaimed. "If you live in Boston, you can get a Pit Bull, a Chihuahua, a Golden Retriever, a German Shepherd, a Jack Russell Terrier, or whatever other breed you want. I personally would stay away from the Shih-Tzus. Aside from their rather unfortunate name, they tend to be barkers and _refuse_ to be house-broken. But if you want one of those, you can get one—there are absolutely _no_ restrictions. And we expect that people who own these animals are going to train them so that they don't chase your children down the street, or take your steak off your plate at a weekend barbecue, or steal your ball at the beach. But if you have a Pit Bull, you're on your own in that department: train the dog, but not near us. And so _because_ of that, the dogs never leave their homes. Because they're unsocialized and difficult to handle. It's circular."

"Your Honor, no one is saying not to take the dogs out in public," Beedle protested. "They just need to be properly restrained as per the ordinance. If you want to take a chance on the dogs in your own home, that's your decision. But don't visit it on the rest of the population. It's a wonder there aren't laws restricting people from getting this breed at all—there was an attack in Lowell where the owner was attacked by his _own_ two pit bulls!"

"But, alas, you can't legislate stupidity," Alan countered. "If you could, you'd find Congress almost empty, and certainly the White House would be—"

"_Mister_ Shore," the judge said warningly.

"Sorry. But in the case Mr. Beedle is talking about, in which the owner was attacked by his _own_ pit bulls, it might be interesting to note that the dogs were named _Venom_ and _Rampage._ Now, I'm not one to draw conclusions, Your Honor, but it seems to be that perhaps the owner, Mr. Spaulding, had something particular in mind when he got those dogs, and instead of the animals being put down, perhaps _he_ should have been the one facing the big needle with the green liquid. Okay, I know I'll get letters for that one, but nevertheless. You'll notice that _my_ client's pit bull is named Sir Lancelot."

Beedle heaved a sigh. "Your Honor…"

"The law says the dog has to be muzzled or in a container—neither of which allows Anne Marie Belmarce's dog to be trained and socialized so it doesn't cause the trouble people seem so certain is going to happen. Your Honor, you can take a great step toward animal rights—and human intelligence—if you not only throw out the fine, but allow my client to take her dog to the Common for training, where it will be properly socialized, and perfectly trained."

Judge Peyton nodded and looked at Alan. "Mr. Shore. I understand there are passionate arguments on both sides of the legislation, but it's fairly straightforward and since the facts don't seem to be in dispute, I need you to stick to relevant details."

"Certainly," Alan answered. He collected himself, nodded, looked around for a moment to get a sense of atmosphere before he began. Everyone was waiting. The room was, as always, his. Then he spoke calmly, engagingly, his hands working to tell the story with his voice.

"I'm sure most of us will remember, at some stage, watching _The Little Rascals_. Alfalfa was in love with Darling, Spanky was scheming, and Buckwheat always, _always_ looked terrified. There was rarely a grown-up in sight. But… there was always a dog. His name was Pete. Pete the Pup was their nanny. He joined all their exploits, kept Joe's kite flying high, and sometimes even got to share their ice-cream." Alan smiled and gave a small laugh. "There's one episode—maybe you remember it—where a young girl is drowning, and Pete the Pup, who's tied to a shrub, _valiantly_ strains at his leash until it comes loose, and he _drags _the shrub along the ground, _barking_ and _tugging_ until he can get to the water and—_pull_ the girl out."

Finished acting out the story, Alan put a hand to his chest as though to calm his fast-beating heart. "Pete was a pit bull. Because Americans used to have an absolute _love affair _with the breed. Pit bull dogs were known to be _just_ as portrayed in that show: _guardians_ of children. Strong, loyal, and loving. And that's how Sir Lancelot is to the Belmarce family. Seven-year old Jonathan can play as rough as he likes with his pit bull—the animal sits there and takes it. Even when he's _eating_, this dog _won't_ show aggression, but simply moves over to accommodate his young charge while he munches happily away. But things have changed. Some humans, for lack of a better term for them, began to exploit the breed's willingness to learn, and turned them into fighting machines. Fear outweighed everything else we had ever known about them—so much for being loyal and loving guardians; _now, _pit bulls are apparently ruthless, unprovoked lethal weapons. Whatever Jonathan knows about _his_ dog, it must be some kind of fluke. Surely that's the case, because there are so many laws about these dogs that we should be surprised we ever allowed them to breed in the first place!"

Alan paused, seemed to think about something. "But then, we often get things wrong, don't we. Over the past twenty or thirty years, _all sorts _of dogs have been put on the vicious list: German Shepherds, Rottweilers, Dobermans… even _Labradors _once ended up on the too-frightening-for-families list. And yet every one of those dogs has been used in police and military exercises, _including the pit bull!_—because they have intelligence, a willingness to learn and a desire to please.

"The Humane Society of the United States and the Center for Disease Control _both_ say Breed Specific Legislation is ineffective at stopping animal attacks. Aside from the monumental and _impossible _task of figuring out what breeds _any_ mixed dog contains without a DNA test, the Humane Society says the breed cannot, repeat _cannot,_ predict the bite. In fact, many animal control officers—and I'm sure not a small number of mail carriers—say that when they _have_ been bitten, it's been the _smaller breeds_ that are almost always the culprits! So what do we do? Put all Chihuahuas in chains? Have Pomeranians wear warning signs around their necks? If the breed was the problem, surely that would be the way to go.

"I want to introduce you to someone." Alan looked toward the doors of the courtroom. The judge and the spectators followed suit, and a sympathetic buzz broke out in the gallery when Denny entered, carrying a small puppy wearing a muzzle. Denny made his way to Alan and held out the dog for him to take. Alan reached out for the squirming, whimpering animal with surprising ease and turned back to the judge. "This is Bailey," he said, indicating the grey, wiggling mass in his arms. "Bailey is a pit bull puppy. He's twelve weeks old and he belongs to a friend of my colleague Denny Crane. Bailey isn't even housebroken yet—something I'm hoping he forgets while I'm holding him so close to my tailored suit—but he can't be allowed out without a muzzle, because according to the Boston City Ordinance, if he's not wearing one, he has to be in a secured temporary enclosure. So here he is, the only danger he poses putting us into 'cute' _overload_, with his face stuck behind this _cage."_ Alan approached the bench and feigned aggressively aiming the pup at the judge. "Watch out, Judge, this one could pee on your robe."

Judge Peyton, taken aback, shook her head and frowned but said nothing.

"Now let's take a look at someone else." Alan turned toward the door again, and this time Clarence Bell entered, holding a large and restless Rottweiler. He waited near the back door as murmuring voices rose in a worried pitch. "Counsel, what is the meaning of this?" asked the judge.

"This is Aladdin, Your Honor," Alan explained, waving Clarence further into the room. "He's is a full-grown, fully trained Rottweiler, with enough strength in his jaws to bite my client's arm in half, and quite possibly rip _your _head right off your body." The judge raised an eyebrow. "He's no less than ten times the weight of this little pup, with _immeasurably_ more speed and power, and yet he's allowed to walk through the city restrained by nothing more than a leash and a stern word from his owner." Clarence reached Alan's side, and the pair faced Peyton. "Now that they're side by side, which one looks to _you _like it should be wearing a muzzle?"

Alan paused, waited for the answer he knew wasn't coming but was clearly in the judge's mind, and nodded for Clarence to depart. "Breed Specific Legislation addresses the _wrong _end of the leash. If the ordinance _must _stand, it needs to be amended: we need to legislate _who_ is allowed to _own_ the breed: no first time owners, mandatory training, mandatory fencing requirements, no prior criminal records…." Alan stopped, regrouped. "This ordinance certainly wasn't intended to punish people like Anne Marie Belmarce, who's trying to help her dog become a good canine citizen. If anyone should be _muzzled_, it's the people who _take_ these dogs, and train them to fight, and to kill, and to live in ways that no creature was ever intended to live. Certain once-heroic football players fall into that category. And one of _his _pit bulls is now a therapy animal! Because he's been _retrained_ to serve and love humans. And, in fact, pit bulls are very disciplined. They do _exactly _what they are told. If they are told to _fight_, they fight. If they are told to _love_, they love. The problem lies with the owners, not the dogs."

Alan handed the puppy back to Denny, who sat down behind Anne Marie, then addressed the bench. "The day they brought Sir Lancelot home from the pound, Anne Marie Belmarce and her children _chose_ to save a life. Could they have gotten another breed? Of course. But _this_ dog, _this dog_, was going to die _that day_. They _chose_ to ignore the ridiculousness of breed-based bias. They _chose_ to get the dog trained, so it wouldn't fall prey to the misconceptions about pit bulls. They want to teach him to sit, to stay, to come when called, and to be a good family pet. But because of the Boston City Ordinance, unless they call in a personal dog trainer, _they can't do it_. And so the dream of the family dog, the nanny dog, has been _snatched_ out of their grasp. In the _Little Rascals_ episode I referred to earlier, poor Pete the Pup actually tries to _hang_ himself because his owner wrongly believes that he was trying to drown the girl he was in reality trying to save. Sir Lancelot is a victim of a similar misconception. He's a good dog. He's done _nothing_ to prove otherwise. But he'll be contained in a way that only uneducated, misguided humans can manage. And that, perhaps, is the most _tragic_ thing of all.

"Seven year old boys," Alan stated, his voice, and his eyes, turning hard, and brimming with barely concealed anger, "should be able to love a dog—_any_ dog—without worrying that someone could arbitrarily take it away. Breed Specific Legislation _doesn't work_. It's _cruel._ And it shouldn't be allowed. Anywhere. Jonathan Belmarce deserves to love a dog. How _dare_ we tell a child that his love is worth less than anyone else's, because of the breed of animal he's chosen to give it to. If we don't allow this family to train their dog in an affordable, and accessible, way, then that's _exactly_ the message we're sending him. And shame on us."

Alan returned to the table and sat down, unbuttoned his jacket, and stared into space. Denny looked at him thoughtfully, and stayed quiet.

* BL * BL * BL *

Alan squeezed Anne Marie Belmarce's hand as they stood up when the judge came back into the courtroom. When everyone was reseated, Judge Peyton addressed them.

"I've spent more time than I thought I would looking into this matter," she said. "Quite frankly, I thought I knew all I needed to know about pit bulls. But I was wrong. It seems there really is quite a lot to what Mr. Shore said: breed really does _not_ determine the bite. In fact, a CDC study showed that _twenty-five_ breeds of dogs were involved in the two-hundred thirty-eight dog bite fatalities reported over a twenty year period. Unfortunately, pit bulls and Rottweilers were involved in more than half of them. But the fact remains: although any dog will bite, people are more likely to report attacks by those breeds than by _other_ breeds, because there is a climate of fear that has been created and sustained by the media and by people like Michael Vicks, and by people like David Spaulding, who clearly _want_ people to fear their dogs. And dogs have incredible instincts—they feel fear, and they feed on it.

"I was astounded at just how much is out there about this issue. One side says the pit bulls are misunderstood; the other side says the pro-pit bull side is making things up. Everyone has studies and statistics, and _no one_ seems to know exactly what to believe.

"Unfortunately, the law aside, that means I don't know what to believe either. I have no doubt that Ms. Belmarce and her children would be superb pit bull owners. They already are, from the evidence that's been presented today, and by their great desire to make sure this dog is trained responsibly. It's a tragedy that more people don't take a page out of their book; perhaps there would be less fear and less restriction of the breed if people did the right thing.

"Again, Mr. Shore, you are right: the law would make much more sense if it addressed the people who own the animal. It's my gut feeling that it's the people who create the bulk of the problem, not the dog. But right now, the law addresses the dog, and that's where I have to side here. I'm afraid Sir Lancelot is going to have to be trained privately, or wearing a muzzle. However, I'm going to waive the fine. I hope that you'll use the money for training; I have no doubt that you will. I wish you well. This court stands adjourned." The gavel came down, with a definite air of finality.

Alan pursed his lips and turned to Anne Marie. "I'm sorry," he said. "I had hoped I could do more."

But his client smiled gratefully. "You told me it was a long shot," she said. "I can't thank you enough. And at least we don't have to pay the fine."

Alan smiled wanly. He was disappointed, more than he thought was reasonable, with his half-victory. "Indeed," he said.

He was taken by surprise when Anne Marie suddenly reached out and hugged him. He let the hug happen without returning it, and smiled politely when she released him. He didn't feel he'd done anything to deserve it.


	6. Chapter 6

Thank you, David E. Kelley… I own only Lorelei and this story… everything else comes from David's brilliant universe…

* BL * BL * BL *

When Lorelei answered the door, Alan's initial reaction was to check for signs she'd been crying. He found only traces; clearly, she'd had time to get herself under control while he was in court. She smiled at him and said hello, then quietly invited him in.

"Would you like some coffee?" she offered.

"Not right now," Alan answered. They settled onto the sofa. "Denny told me about the will."

"Oh," Lorelei said simply. She shrugged. "Well, at least Manny kept it a secret while he was alive. I'd have been even _more _miserable if I'd actually known!"

Alan looked her in the eyes. "Lorelei," he said seriously, "those women mustn't be allowed to get any money."

But she laughed. "Why not? They clearly made him happier than I did! I don't want it anyway. I'll just take my thirty percent and get out."

"What about your sons?" Alan pressed. "Don't you think they deserve it?"

"If I'm not mistaken, fighting the will could mean a long, drawn-out… _public_… court battle. I don't need this becoming any better known than it already is. The boys would be mortified."

"It doesn't have to be that way. Denny says he knows a couple of these women—and they're married. Chances are they'd be happy to make a deal once it becomes evident that their husbands would _also_ know about their indiscretions."

"Alan, there's no point in—"

"This _can't happen_, Lorelei. It's _wrong."_

"Alan, I appreciate your indignation on my behalf, but—"

"My indignation leans more toward revenge," Alan said in a low, serious voice. When Lorelei opened her mouth but words didn't come, Alan said, "I told you: you don't know me very well."

She squeezed his hands affectionately. "Alan." He looked at her. "Manny is gone. There is absolutely nothing to be gained by ruining these women's lives. He can't come back to me."

"Your sons need to know you'll stand up for yourself, Lorelei."

"And I will," she said. "I'm going to go up to New Hampshire for a little while; there's a cottage up there—as far as I know, it's still mine—and I'm going to think. When I come back, I'll probably use my thirty percent to go back to school. Maybe I'll go back to nursing—maybe I'll try something completely different. And in the meantime, you and Denny will try and wrestle what you can away from whomever it is that Manny directed the money to—but only those who don't deserve it, Alan, and only those who you can take it from without making their lives a mess. Manny left a bitter legacy; I don't want to continue it."

"When will you go?" Alan asked, looking at his hands around hers.

"Monday," Lorelei said. "I spoke to the boys this morning, told them I needed some time away and that I'd see them when I get back."

"Lorelei, you need your boys now. You need to be around people who care about you."

Lorelei smiled. "I am," she said. She freed her hands and wrapped them, in turn, around Alan's. "I need to think. But I'll be back," she told him.

Their eyes met and stayed locked on each other for a moment. Alan moved in slowly, smoothly, and planted a gentle kiss on her forehead. Then he pulled her into his arms, and held her.

* BL * BL * BL *

Denny came out to the balcony, holding his cigar and spying his scotch waiting for him on the table between the two chairs, as it should be. He glanced over at Alan, who was holding his own glass and cigar, but with his head tipped back, his eyes closed.

"You awake?" Denny asked after a few seconds.

"I am." Alan didn't move. "But it's been a long day, Denny; I'm worn out."

"It _was_ a big one, wasn't it?" Denny admitted coming to sit down. "You did a good job in court today—too bad you couldn't win it the way you wanted to."

"I really wanted that dog to be able to go out on the Common with the others," Alan said, bringing his head back up and taking a sip of his scotch. "But I guess it wasn't to be."

"I saw what you did after the trial," Denny said. "How much did you give her?"

Alan glanced over at his friend. "What?"

"Don't play dumb with me; you know what I'm talking about. How much did you write on that check?"

"Denny—" Denny stopped him with a look that told him he was caught. "Enough," Alan said.

"Enough?"

"Enough to get the dog trained at home."

"And then some, I'll bet."

"I won't bet with you, Denny."

"Because you'll lose." Alan shrugged. Denny shook his head. "That had to be one of the longest closings I've ever heard come out of your mouth. How long did it take you to write that?"

Alan took a puff of his cigar. "Not long. I had the research at my disposal…. Most of it just came spilling out, anyway, when I thought about young Jonathan and the way he hugged that dog."

"Sir Lancelot," Denny chortled.

Alan chuckled, too. "Yes. A noble creature, indeed."

The friends stayed quiet for a moment, savoring their time, their drinks and their cigars. Then, Denny said, "I'm glad you've gotten over your fear of dogs."

Alan looked out over the city. "I wasn't afraid of them, Denny. I love dogs."

Denny laughed. "Sure you do," he teased softly.

"I do!" Alan insisted. Then his voice grew quiet. "I just… don't want to get close to them."

"Why not?" Denny asked. "Dogs are great! They stay with you through everything—the good, the bad, the divorces. They help you get women, too," he said enthusiastically. "Women _love _to see a man walking a dog in the park. They're like four-legged estrogen magnets."

"They're not for me."

"But they're _good_ for you!"

"_I'm_ not good for _them_."

"You're really serious about this, aren't you? What happened to the dog you had when you were a kid—did it run away?"

"I'd rather not talk about it, Denny."

"Really, Alan, what do you think is gonna hap—?"

"_I don't want to talk about it,"_ Alan said forcefully.

Denny backed off. "Okay, okay," he said. They lapsed into silence. "I've really pushed all your buttons this week, haven't I?"

Alan took a long, slow, needed sip of scotch. "You have," he admitted into his glass.

"You liked Lorelei, didn't you?" Denny asked.

"I understood her, Denny. Sometimes things aren't as black and white as you make them out to be."

"Did you have sex when you saw her this afternoon?"

Alan shook his head in modest disbelief. "I'm not going there again with you, Denny."

"Why not? You told me the last time."

"Well, I'm not telling you _this_ time."

"Not that there was anything to tell," Denny acknowledged.

"Whether there is or there isn't, you're not getting another word out of me about it," Alan declared. "Forget it."

"Okay, okay," Denny agreed. "She's going back to New Hampshire?"

"She has a cottage in North Conway. She's going to take some time up there to just… come to grips with everything. It's a smart idea."

"But a lonely one for you," Denny observed.

"I can handle being alone."

"Why do I see a sleepover in our future?"

"I didn't ask for a sleepover!" Alan protested.

"You were going to! You watch—before the credits roll, you'll be asking to come to my place. You wait and see."

Alan laughed. "Not tonight," he said. "Now it's a challenge."

Denny took a puff on his cigar. "Sure." He contemplated for a moment. "You've gone soft on me," he said.

Another short laugh from Alan. "What do you mean?"

"You've gone soft! When I first met you, you'd sleep with anything in a skirt." Alan opened his mouth to protest; Denny anticipated him. "Except Clarice." Alan smiled widely and took another pull on his cigar. "Now you're… sensitive. You're thoughtful. You're… looking for things to be meaningful."

"Is that bad?" Alan asked.

"No, no," Denny hastened to say. "I just miss your edge, that's all. You used to be a lot more degenerate. I miss that."

"You've been too good an influence on me." Denny snorted. Then: "Do you like me _less_ this way, Denny?"

Denny was startled by the question. "What? No!" he answered immediately. "You're my best friend! No!"

"I can be your best friend and you still like me less than you did before," Alan said.

"Don't be ridiculous. I like you just as much as I ever did. In some ways more. You used to confuse me in the early days, Alan. Sometimes you still do, but I think now it's the… Mad Cow."

Alan closed his eyes and shook his head, his lips curving up just slightly in a smile.

"Do you like _me_ less?" Denny asked suddenly. "Because of the Mad Cow?"

Alan looked squarely at him. "No," he replied, direct and emphatic.

But Denny continued. "Because I wouldn't—you know, I wouldn't know if I was—"

"_No."_ Then, Alan quietly repeated, "No."

"Good."

The pair remained quiet for a minute, looking out over the city and lost in their own thoughts. Then Alan, staring at nothing, broke the silence almost in a whisper. "My father killed her, Denny." Denny pulled the cigar he had been puffing out of his mouth, astounded by Alan's quiet words. He waited for an explanation. "Our dog," Alan added curtly.

Denny just looked at his friend, his mouth agape.

"I used to tell people that she… ran away." Another long silence. Alan stared at his drink, at his cigar, at the curling smoke, and then focused on a chink in the concrete of the balcony wall in front of him. "But she didn't. My father killed her."

Denny was dumbfounded. "Your father… _killed_… your dog?" he managed at last.

At first Alan said nothing. Then, almost reluctantly, he continued. "One wet day when I was seven years old, I forgot to wipe my feet when I got home from school and I left a… muddy mess in the hallway. When my mother discovered it, she shouted at me and made me clean it up. I was still doing that when my father came home from work. He screamed at my mother about supper not being ready, and she told him it was because she was too busy chasing up after me and my messes. My father swore, and then said he was going to go outside to have a beer while he waited for her to finish cooking. He passed me in the hallway on the way out, and when he opened the back door, Angel came… _rushing_ in."

Alan stopped.

Denny looked at his friend, wanting to hear the rest of the story and yet horrified at what he suspected was coming next. He studied Alan's face; it was tight and stressed, and the younger man's mind was clearly fixed on the past, seeing something that he had likely locked away from himself for years. But Denny knew that Alan needed to finish. So he prompted him, "Angel was…"

"Our cocker spaniel," Alan said brightly, looking at Denny. "She was five years old. I don't remember us ever getting her; in my life, she'd… always been there," he said, with a flash of a smile. Then, remembering, he turned haunted eyes back to the concrete and resumed his tale quietly. "She had been in the sun porch for most of the day, but she'd obviously been out for a little while, and her paws were… filthy. She came _bounding_ at me the way she always did when she was happy to see me, and my father… just… got so _angry._"

Alan's breathing got sharper, and he furrowed his brow anxiously. Denny saw the muscles in his jaw tense and his grip tighten around his scotch glass. He was shaking. Alan was back in that hallway, Denny realized. He was seven years old, right now. "I knew my father was furious. I tried to… stop her. But… I couldn't calm her down and she was jumping all over me, and all over my father, and then he screamed at me to control her, and he raised his fist and his beer bottle and I remember I cringed and tried to run away, but… I couldn't get Angel to come with me, and so I just hid behind the coat rack…."

Alan shook his head as though ashamed of his behavior and fell silent. Then he dropped his chin to his chest, a child once again, and feeling incredible guilt. "He _blamed _me, Denny," Alan whispered finally, fresh grief charging his voice. "He said if I hadn't made him so angry by leaving that mud in the hallway, he never would have…" A long, painful pause, then he continued, his voice now stronger, steeled. "From that moment on, I haven't… allowed myself to get close to a dog. I couldn't bear the thought of being responsible for something that horrible ever happening again."

Denny honored his friend's pain with silence. Truth be told, he couldn't think of what to say. Alan had carried this childhood trauma for nearly forty years, and what that seven year old boy had seen and heard that day was just as clear in his mind now as it was then. Denny couldn't imagine the weight of that powerlessness. "Alan," he said finally, urgently. "Alan, your father was a violent, dangerous man. Someone should have protected Angel—protected you _both! _You couldn't be _responsible_ for what happened that night!"

Alan listened, took two deliberate, shaking breaths through his mouth. "The adult part of me knows that, Denny," he murmured. "But… the seven year old that still lives inside of me…" He played with the glass in his hand but didn't drink from it. "It comes across as fear, but it's… enforced detachment. It's easier to close myself off, than it is to remember that moment every single day."

Denny accepted the statement. Every time he learned one of Alan's dark secrets—there seemed to be many, and there were probably still more that Denny hadn't even dreamed of yet—he marveled at how well-adapted, and how honorable in his own way, his friend had actually turned out. It was how he'd coped that had shaped him. "If I'd been your father… " Denny started, then he waved his hand dismissively. "Never mind. I'd have been a terrible father. _But_…" he added, pointing his cigar for emphasis, "I'd have _loved_ you."

Alan absorbed the words and tried to let them begin to heal his wounds. "I know you would, Denny," he said. "You have a huge heart."

"A _Denny Crane_-sized heart!"

"Indeed." They remained deep in their own thoughts for a moment, then Alan spoke up again, his tone tentative. "Is that how you look at me, Denny? As a son?"

Denny straightened up in his chair. _"No!"_ Denny protested vehemently. "I already told you, you're my _best friend. _I wouldn't… sit on my balcony and drink scotch and smoke cigars with my _son_."

Alan nodded, content with the response. "Good," he said, taking a sip of scotch. "I don't want you to be my father. I prefer you to be my best friend."

"So do I."

The friends sat quietly. Then: "I'm going to get you a puppy for Christmas."

Alan let his head roll toward the senior partner. "_No,_ Denny."

"I _am_! I'll get you something big and goofy and easy to train. You'll love it!"

"Denny, _no._"

"Okay, maybe you want one of those—what do they call 'em—wallet dogs."

"Purse dogs," Alan corrected him.

"Whatever. Although I didn't take you for the yappy dog type."

"Denny, I don't want a dog."

"But you should have one!"

"My feelings aside, Denny, I'm rarely around to take care of one, and you seem to have forgotten that I live in a hotel."

"I have a property out at Amherst where I head in the fall to watch the leaves change. It can stay out there with the caretaker, and when we want to take a trip, we can see it!"

"Then it would be the caretaker's dog." Alan shook his head, always amazed at his friend's expansiveness, even if it wasn't practical. "I didn't know you had a property at Amherst."

"I keep a couple of horses there. And I like to go out there when the foliage is peaking. You ought to come some time!"

"I'd like to," Alan said, nodding. He took a long drag on his cigar, blew the smoke straight up into the air, and watched it dissipate. "You know, Denny, I've never told anyone about Angel; to this day, even my sister thinks she ran away. Why is it that I tell you things I don't tell anyone else?"

"Because_ I_… make the scary things… not so scary!"

Alan agreed. "You do," he said. "Thank you, Denny."

"You're welcome." A pause. "Sleepover?"

Alan laughed out loud. "I thought you didn't want one of those!"

"I think you need one. And maybe this weekend I'll take you out to Amherst, let you hang around on the property with me."

Alan's eyes narrowed. "Are there dogs at your property, Denny?" he asked, suspicious.

Denny tried to look innocent. "Maybe one or two," he admitted. "I hadn't thought about it."

"Of course you didn't," Alan said, shaking his head. The friends sat quietly, comfortably, in each other's presence for a moment. "I'm not wearing those earrings I saw you in yesterday, by the way. Those things hurt my ears."

"That's all right. I'll let you wear the scarf. It makes you feel pretty."

"No, thanks," Alan answered. Then, he decided, "I'll bring the root beer."

"I have to get more popcorn. And graham crackers. I feel like S'mores tonight."

"We'll go to the store on the way home."


End file.
